I believe Art’s authentic value is held in the heart of the viewer. This large acrylic (5′ x 5′) work was painted decades ago. Over the years, viewers have given me the gift of their unique interpretations of this image.
I know why I painted this image back then, but today, for me, it has come to bear an entirely different meaning – one that I hold in my heart.
Feel free to share your interpretation if you’d like. (I’ll not comment on your thoughts, good or bad – swing away)
I hope you’re managing during this time of… (so many words I want to put here, but we’re being bombarded enough)
This is Barney. He was created with 25 lbs of air dry clay. This is my third creature sculpt – and to-date I’ve learned 1,000 ways how not to sculpt. Working toward 1,000 more…
How I wish I could waken him and send him to D.C. – Barney enjoys eating orange men whose chests beat with dark hearts…
In 2016, a year before you died, you told me quite emphatically, “I don’t like Hillary Clinton, but Trump will wreck this country.” I don’t know how you voted that year. Did you give your Republican vote anyway? Or did you vote conservative along the party line and leave the top row blank? (That’s the image I hold onto.)
A child of immigrants, a career FBI agent, a lifelong conservative who produced four liberal daughters and two conservative sons, a man who taught by example, ‘nothing is more important than family.’ A man who loathed those who carried no moral compass,…
You’ve been on my mind more than usual. Several people in your family have been the recipients of those taunting White House emails and degrading messages. Russia is supposed to be a cozy partner… What’s going on in America right now would break your patriotic heart. I know it’s breaking mine.
Robert – who only months ago shared his stellar poetry through a powerful voice – is no longer here. His generosity and kindness – needed so desperately in this world – will never be forgotten❤️
A gleaming motorcycle arrived via flatbed to our suburban ranch. Six children are warned not to touch its chrome and attitude. Dad has never ridden a motorcycle before. He tells us he’ll be back later — he’s taking the bike across the George Washington Bridge. Wearing a button-up shirt, plaid Bermuda shorts, black knee socks and brown loafers, no one ever looked more badass.
The joy of imaginary playdoh. My first few sculpts have been created with airdry clay. In the coming months, I hope to venture into polymer. As a poor excuse for a kitchen Italian, I find the oven a tad out of my zone, and polymer clay requires oven-baking to set. I’ll get there at some point. Just not yet. This is Sculpt No.2.
Brick by brick, tooth by tooth the learning continues…
Here in Hudson Valley, NY, after the holidays with the trees barren and winter white no longer serving Christmas Card purpose, it can get bleak. This is the long stretch to spring. Any creating can be cathartic, maybe even add a little warmth in the fingertips.
Across many years, our kitchen linoleum withstood the battering soles of six Roselli siblings and the endless march of neighborhood children.
In our home Sundays began with morning Mass book-ended by evening pasta. Tomato sauce was gravy. Mom’s gravy hid meatballs. Our forks would battle fiercely.
My ‘best’ friend lived across the street. Every Sunday night her family ate pierogies and their cars were shiny. Her older cheerleader sister drove a beige Pontiac Firebird. I loathed the color—fast cars must be kissed by fire. I’d never eaten pierogies. I’d never been invited into my friend’s home for dinner.
One evening I was invited over for Sunday pierogies. Filled with potato and pan-fried to a golden-buttery crisp. That night, rather than my beloved dreams of flying horses, I sailed upon heavenly-winged pierogies The following morning I prayed for God’s forgiveness.
(in my childhood kitchen – a photo op – i didn’t cook back then – i can’t cook now – i’m a horrid kitchen italian)
Three of us usually accompany her. Two of us push unwieldy shopping carts. Mom fills three carts every two weeks for nine ravenous people, one voracious dog, neighborhood visitors (back when it was quite common for neighbors to stop by) and of course, the Italians-the Italian relatives.
The store is bright. The bakery section smells of heaven. The produce aisle with its brazen display of foil-wrapped candies is my favorite. When Mom moves onto the adjacent aisle with two carts and one of our other sisters, my younger sibling and I begin stuffing our pockets.
Though Dolores and I believe these illuminated candies are ‘free’ — our better angels tell us to stow the candy deep.
Mom wouldn’t catch us for quite some time.
One of my favorite photos – Uncle Robert (Mom’s brother) always brought great gifts whenever he visited us from far-off California – this was the one visit he botched – then our smiling mother forced us to wear Uncle Rob’s gifts for a photo op. We were all quite miserable about it. Still – some of us attempted a smile… Top row – left top right Grace, Virginia; bottom row – Robert, Vito, Dolores, me
Well, it’s official – no turning back now – 2025 here were go…! am:)
Months ago, my son had asked me if I could recreate a painting for him. The particular artwork in question – he’d decided long ago – was his favorite of all time. Since I’d painted a picture of fish for his sister, I told him I’d create art for him too. The painting he wanted had been living as a blurry photo on his phone for quite some time. He’d seen the art – years ago – hanging on the wall of a restaurant.
Neither Max or I were able to locate a decent reference image – my son’s photo was so blurry in fact, I saw nothing but white in the air and dark lumps on the ground. My son’s description from memory was “men on horses and some cabins.” We went as far as returning to the restaurant (under new ownership for several years) and inquiring about the painting that had once hung on their far left wall.
Now I’ll tell you, I don’t like painting landscapes – I never have – meaning – I’ve avoided them my entire life – so my best attempts at recreating any are fake – I muddle my way through in an effort to get something close to the needle of credibility. The painting above is the result – my son – of course – loves it – because his mom made it for him. Any artist looking at this might smile and keep the honest review beneath the tongue.
And, as karma so often intervenes, months after I’d finished the painting, Max and I walked 2 blocks from the house to get coffee. The coffee-bar’s proprietor was a collector of books, art, antiques…and when we showed him the photo of my painting – he immediately knew whose artwork I’d been trying to recreate (in fact – the framed reproduction below was actually in another room of his coffee bar)- dang – was I off.
The Last Cantonment, 1783 – John F. Gould
John Fleming Gould (1906-1996) graduated from Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, NY, and later instructed at Pratt for 22 years. He was a prominent illustrator for the Saturday Evening Post for more than 8 years. Many of Mr. Gould’s works hang in private collections. He was partial to historical subjects, especially in the Hudson River Valley from the Statue of Liberty to Albany, NY.
I’ve provided more visual snow for some of you. who don’t really need to see anymore snow. I hope you’re all keeping warm, am:)
anntogether 